


You know me

by partofforever (edvic)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 1940s, Friends to Lovers, Glory Hole, M/M, Mutual Pining, Sexual Content, Time Travel, Watersports, flatmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-04
Updated: 2018-03-04
Packaged: 2019-03-27 00:45:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13869483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edvic/pseuds/partofforever
Summary: He traveled back. He saved Tom. Now they're flatmates and Harry longs for more.





	You know me

**Author's Note:**

> Enjoy!

Harry stirred.

From across the table, Tom threw him a glance, brows furrowed and mouth sealed in a thin line.

Something clenched in his gut. He was distracted again.

Steel hummed against porcelain when his fork found the plate and the sound buzzed in his ears, his thoughts still far away from breakfast and Tom, even if only outwardly. Under the surface of indifference, he was thinking about the man every hour of his waking life. 

At night, he was dreaming about him.

“... join me for dinner tonight?” 

Harry managed to catch the question second time around.

A smile - a sweet one, he hoped, a soft one - quirked his lips up and warmth bloomed around his heart, crawling under his ribs. On the chilly Friday morning, Harry felt almost feverish, even if he didn't feel ill.

Tom smiled too, the slow, hesitant smile Harry knew well, dark eyes avoiding his own, drifting somewhere towards his shoulder. Shy. He couldn’t believe Tom was shy around him.

“... a good day.”

Once more, Tom’s voice came to him delayed, almost in slow-motion, as if the space separating them - a wooden table, a vase of yellow tulips - was filled with something more substantial than air, making it hard to catch the words, to process them and turn into sentences, group the scattered letters and form an answer. 

Tom didn’t seem to mind. His heels echoed on the kitchen floor and then further away, in the corridor, muffled by the doormat for a moment before disappearing completely.

 

…

 

His days had a certain routine. Easy to follow, to everyone's surprise, even for someone who lived in another time just a few months ago. 

Minerva, the only one who knew his future - his past, rather - couldn't believe he had adapted so quickly, effortlessly almost, telling him from time to time with a hint of praise in her voice that she could never follow such a strict timetable. She'd  _ become distracted with the rain falling against the window _ or  _ make herself one cup of tea after another on cold afternoons _ , sitting alone in the quiet flat.  _ I used to do it all the time _ , she had said once, the smell of her perfumes sweet and peachy in-between them - Harry had had to try hard not to lean closer, nose into the crook of her neck to appreciate it fully, before he remember who she was, who she would be - _ if it hadn’t been for Augusta, I'd never have finished school. _

He had bowed his head low, regretting - only a bit - that he hadn’t let his hair grow out instead of styling it after Tom. It would hide his smirk better.

There was no schedule he couldn't follow. He was used to orders. For years, they were everything he knew.

Almost everything.

He was keeping the memories hidden deeply, especially around Minerva, more afraid of the consequences of his secrets being known rather than because he was ashamed of their nature, but every now and then, during the ten minutes break around noon, he'd give himself a go at thinking about his second favourite place in the city.

Before Tom - this Tom - it used to be his only favourite place. 

When he came back, to do the impossible and change the future as he had known it, the club was still there.

Filled with more cigarette smoke and wild music, with illegal alcohol and couples trying to dance on the dusty floor, clutching onto each other in a drunken stupor, the speakeasy with no name was traded for Tom's guest room, clean and a bit bleak if he ignored the single cactus Minerva got him and the pile of neatly alphabetized books on his shelf. Like his timetable, his room was only partially his. 

Not that he minded. He liked being told what to do, especially by Tom who was kind and a bit uneasy around Harry, scared perhaps to hurt him any further, despite Harry telling him that he was, to put it simply,  _ fine. I can’t understand why would I ever want to kill you, _ he had said one time after dinner, eyes dark and heavy on his own, and Harry thought that maybe this Tom would never know  _ why _ .

A drilling sound cut through the air, ringing in his head. 

With a flicker of his wand - half of a circle up, counterclockwise - he silenced the alarm Tom had given him. 

His cup was still full, tea slowly growing colder, and Harry felt his muscles itch. He got distracted again.

It was all Tom' fault, he was sure of it. Even if his flatmate was unaware of Harry's thoughts, most of them wonderfully graphic, detailed beyond reason, there was no possible excuse, no forgiveness Harry could spare him. Tom was the one guilty of Harry's thoughts, just like the other Tom before. They were both demons leading him astray. Harry was merely the means.

He couldn't possibly take responsibility for being so rotten. Surely, someone else was to blame. 

Even if he enjoyed the sin.

 

...

 

The late afternoon was cold and windy, but the rain had stopped somewhere around his second break, between chapter three and four of another herbology book. Potion-making was developing quickly after the war and Tom had told him he was good at it; Harry didn't want to argue. He liked being praised _. _

Only sometimes he would catch himself on thinking about Snape and how much he wouldn’t agree.

Somehow, it had all become a trickery, even bigger than before. 

His life used to be a lie, first with the Dursleys, than caught between Voldemort and Dumbledore, but for some reason lying to Albus was different than lying to Tom.

Unlike Albus, this Tom trusted him. He barely  _ had  _ to tell lies these days. 

For the world outside, he was just another man going back home on a Friday afternoon. Harry Potter, the same he used to be, even if dressed differently and without his old burden, his back straightened. 

People were looking his way when he went by them, and some days, when he was in a good mood, he would smile back at the girls throwing him curious glances.

Breathing in the early evening mist, he felt alive.

 

…

 

Folding his jacket was always a bit risky. 

In the past that was also the future, his jeans were much more durable. He could kneel on the floor. It was hard and sometimes dirty, but usually the cleaning lady, a short girl called Jo, made sure he’d have the best working space he could imagine. One day she had presented him with a small bottle of air freshener, sprinkling it around with a conspiratorial _ it should make breathing easier _ , and Harry smiled, watching her walk away.

The bottle had landed in his pocket, next to his phone. Explaining that he didn’t need it would be too troublesome.

He liked it, he liked it all - the stinking stall, the pain in his knees, the bitter taste.

But most of all, he liked the anticipation, the nervous moment in-between. What would his next customer be like? What texture, what colour, what shape? Would he be to Harry's preference? Would Harry be to his? Would he twitch against Harry's palm? Would he be long enough to make him choke? Would he be able the squeeze the clear liquid out the tip for an appetizer?

The questions were endless, buzzing between his ears in little flashes of light. Trying to flex his jaw, Harry liked to wonder.

Some customers he could recognize with one glance, others were mysteries waiting to be unfold.

He had his regulars. 

On Mondays, Bubblegum. Every other Thursday, Fig. Some Fridays, Honey.

Truthfully, scheduling his business visits was even harder than before. Tom was sweetly insistent in his tries to accustom Harry with his friends, some of which Harry knew already - the Malfoys, the Blacks - so more often than not they were dining out, laughing and drinking late into the night.

It was easy to pretend he was someone else. 

But it wasn't easy enough to give up on that part of himself.

So he kept sneaking out, stealing precious hours when he was supposed to be walking in the park or studying in the city library, deceiving Tom easily and keeping something only for himself.

Instead of kneeling on the bare floor, he was folding his jacket carefully, asking the gods he didn't really believe in to watch over the navy fabric, to spare it from harm and spilled come. 

Sometimes it was too easy to forget how to breathe - his nose would bump into the wall separating him from Bubblegum or Fig or Honey or some other man whose name was meant to remain a mystery, a passer-by stumbling into his kingdom by chance - and in moments like that he felt almost regretful. He wanted to press closer, feel the heat blooming under skin he was never meant to reach.

What was he to them? A skilled hand, a wet tongue. 

Some days he wanted to be a little bit more.

Most days he didn't mind.

 

...

 

He barely made it back home before Tom. 

Hopeful to meet Honey, he had stayed on his knees for too long.

Thankfully, it hadn’t all been in vain.

It seemed Honey was in a hurry too, moving in short, swift thrusts, trying to make the whole affair quicker and less elegant than usual until Harry felt his skin break and tasted blood on his tongue, some of it glimmering on Honey's skin when they parted. His lower lip was bruised now, swollen when he looked at himself in the neatly organized bathroom next to Tom's bedroom.

He shuddered when the door opened with a swish and Tom stormed in with a muttered  _ good evening _ , wonderfully domestic in his shamelessness. Not embarrassed to relieve himself with a sigh next to Harry, Tom was a view Harry catalogued carefully.

He'd never seen Tom naked.

It was improper to stare, but his eyes wandered down Tom's arms on their own, following the line of his muscles under the white shirt, down and down, to where his fingers were curled and his pants opened.

Wonderful of course, Harry knew it even before seeing his-

His heart stopped.

It couldn't be true.

It could.

In a moment so short no clock could measure it, Harry felt the blessing of enlightenment. 

It was nothing like the Bible said - he didn't hear angelic choirs and heavenly music, he didn't see the face of the Lord - he listened to the steady flow until it turned into dribbles and he understood _. _

 

...

 

For the first time in forever, they were eating at home.

It reminded Harry of their early days together, right after his return and Tom's newspaper ad -  _ looking for a flatmate _ \- the careful tiptoeing around each other, trying not to cross paths too often on the way to the bathroom.

Oh, how far they had come.

“You hurt yourself,” Tom looked at him from across the table, sipping his wine. “How?”

The green peas on his plate were everything he could see.

“It was  _ you  _ who hurt me.”

His voice didn’t tremble. His fingers didn’t drop the knife.

Even his heart was beating on, not willing to rest just yet.

When he looked up, Tom’s eyes were dark.

“Did I?”

 

...

 

It was even easier to forget how to breathe now.

His nose brushed against curly hair and he tried to get closer still, to bury himself right there, pressing his cheek to Tom’s stomach where he was even warmer than between his legs. It was hard to decide what he liked most - the way his muscles twitched under Harry’s palm or the hand on his skull? Between the two points of contact, he felt safe. Useful. Maybe even loved.

Tom huffed a ragged breath. By extension, Harry remembered that he should be breathing too.

With his mouth so full, he struggled to stay still; it was an instinct. Usually, he was the one to dictate the rules. His head was telling him to move away and gasp, spit out the wiry hair sticking to his tongue, but he knew better. He was craving it for so long.

When he moved, it was only to come back again, and his lungs constricted from the lack of air. His throat closed; his fingers, spidery and long, dug into the dark fabric still covering Tom’s thighs. It was only a moment of panic, a single jolt of fear - Tom kept him close through it, with Harry’s lips sealed tight around him, until his blood calmed again, returning to the serenity he had felt before.

On his tongue, Tom twitched, sending another spasm down his bare back. It was getting cold outside, almost mid-October; Harry was thankful for the roaring fireplace behind his back. The lights were playing on Tom’s skin like fireflies did in summer, hovering sleepily above the grass. 

Tom whispered something, his voice a sweet murmur in Harry’s head. He couldn’t quite grasp the meaning of his words. Once again, his nose touched the divot between Tom’s hipbone and thigh.

Harry craved being close to him, every hour of his waking life, and longer, into the night, staying where he was forever, curled in his bed, so much softer than the cold floor that brought them together. 

His eyes fluttered shut when Tom moved, just a bit, arching his back to meet Harry’s mouth. There was an impatient urgency to his thrusts, as if they still had no time, as if they never had enough. Fridays came and went by, one by one, turning into Saturdays and Sundays, weeks slowly dragging on.

They had all the time in the world now. There was no need to let go.

And so he didn’t, inching closer, sucking the low moan out of Tom, fingers digging into bony thighs until he felt the steady pulsing echoing on his tongue and his throat gave a faint try at convulsing again, urging him to move back.

He knew it wasn’t time yet.

There was no need to look up, asking the silent question. His hands were still on Tom’s clothes. Tom’s fingers were in his hair, thumbs massaging his scalp.

“You know me,” Tom said, brushing a stray lock away from Harry’s brow.

He did.

Staying where he was, sheltered between Tom’s legs and arms, so close he couldn’t possibly get any closer even if he tried, Harry waited.

Slowly, Tom grew softer and Harry breathed easier, relaxing his strained jaw only a bit, barely forcing himself to keep the stupid smile off his own face. Not yet, not yet.

_ You know me. _

When the time came at last, he swallowed again, dutiful like he always was. On the carpet, hidden in the flat, far away from their old meeting place, what should have felt like a blasphemy was a psalm and for a brief moment Harry knew the taste of enlightenment again - bitter and sharp, it told him that it didn't matter where they were. Tom would always taste the same for him. And he - he would always swallow him whole.

His eyes closed, and the warmth licking up his back was now like a wind dancing on his skin. 

“Come here.”

He blinked, oddly exhausted, too comfortable to let go, clinging to the flicker of triumph, the moment of  _ impossible  _ becoming  _ real _ . 

Nuzzling into the softness on Tom's pants one last time, Harry moved back.

He was brought up with ease, his own legs a little too wobbly to trust them, and Tom's lap was comfortable enough for his taste, one hand wrapping around his waist to hold him close, the other wandering down his side, tracing the bones peeking from under his skin. Ribs and hip, with a soft press of a thumb in-between, warming him up from inside. 

Tom didn't have to nudge him to move. Harry knew the game well enough.

"I wish I’d known sooner," a whisper ghosted over his neck when his back arched and Tom's lips found his skin, tongue tracing a line from the tip of his collarbone to the edge of his jaw, turning into a kiss right there.

His breathless laugh wasn't loud enough to echo in the room.

"You know me," he tried to say. "You knew me."

He wasn't sure if the words had ever left his mouth, lost in his gasp, hands clutching onto Tom, fingers sinking deep into his skin, still separated from it by the white shirt, ready to take, willing to posses.

With a shudder, he stilled, and for a brief moment - half a heartbeat, not long enough to close and open his eyes - he felt every point of contact between them, each hair and fingerprint, the lonely drop of Tom's saliva on his chin, his own come between them, connecting them.

Time stopped and then it fell, taking Harry down, onto Tom's lap again, stumbling into his arms with a heavy sigh, one full of meaning.

His head pressed to Tom's shoulder, his legs on each side of Tom's thighs, the skin of Harry's stomach clinging to Tom's shirt; he tried to catch his breath.

Something murmured in the air, softly like a lullaby. Harry recognized the flow of Tom's magic.

The rich smell of an orange reached his nose.

His head was filled with questions. Tom wasn’t saying anything.

But he fed Harry the orange and its sweetness merged with the bitter taste lingering on his tongue. Reaching down, Tom wiped him clean with bits of fruits and he ate and ate until he was a blank canvas again, fresh and sated. On his tongue, the food offered so generously melted with ease.


End file.
